


Keep this feeling safe tonight

by acrosspontneuf (FangedAngel)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 16:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20428868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangedAngel/pseuds/acrosspontneuf
Summary: A relationship that occurs in the shadows has its one evening in public aka Katla and Thrask go to Satinalia together.





	Keep this feeling safe tonight

**Author's Note:**

> A commission for the wonderful [numphet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/numphet/works), featuring her amazing Hawke, [Katla](https://numphet.tumblr.com/tagged/my-oc%3A-katla-hawke).  
Be warned for the usual lack of dialogue and abundance of rambling.  
Also includes mentions of characters using alcohol as a coping mechanism, as well as body image issues.  
Title is from PJ Harvey's One Line.  
Some details of Satinalia inspired by Saturnalia.

\---

There is no snow in Kirkwall’s winters, just a chilled damp and the wind rushing in from the sea, howling with the voices of ghosts through Hightown’s streets and insinuating disease into the chests of Darktown dwellers.

Katla leaves the windows open when the wind comes because the desperation in the sound is as familiar as the taste of wine and of Thrask’s skin. On sleepless nights when she is intimate only with the emptiness inside her she stands on the balcony with the alcohol souring on her tongue and reddening her skin and finds solace in the noise, in the fury of the wind, in the way it sings of loss. It smells of brine and decay and it fits on her, tangling in her hair and clutching at her skin like the lover she won’t admit she misses.

It is after one such night, when she still carries the imprint of her own nails across her palm, that Isabela drags her to a nondescript building, the clouds heavy and dark above them, the humidity making it hard to breathe, making them shiver. The wine still in Katla’s blood isn’t as guilty of making her stumble as the wind, and the streets are almost empty. She knows better than to ask Isabela what this is about and braces herself for yet another hat shop, but inside the building there is an explosion of fabric, and in the midst of all that colour a woman dressed in black, her hair silver and her face lined and drained by life.

Katla stands half-naked in the middle of the room as Isabela chats away about Satinalia fashion trends and how to ignore them, the seamstress holding various materials next to Katla’s skin, measuring with practiced efficiency. There is a mirror in front of her, and Katla stares at herself with little kindness, trying to distract from the reflection by remembering Thrask’s hands on the fullness of her thighs, the mark of his fingerprints along the soft sprawl of her belly. She knows that everything about her is too much, overflowing, but he never seems to mind it in their stolen moments together. He always seems as hungry for her as she is for him, and nothing makes him pause, not her magic, as red as their hair, not her body, not the way she screams at him when her feelings claw their way out of her throat.

Isabela talks and talks without requiring a reply, and Katla finds comfort in the sound without paying attention to the words. The seamstress asks no questions, but notices where Katla’s eyes wander, notices the colours and materials she reaches out to touch, notices which of the displayed outfits she studies.

By the end of the appointment, Isabela drags her out, thirsty for rum and gossip at the Hanged Man, and Katla remains none the wiser regarding her Satinalia outfit.

*

It had started off as a joke influenced by wishful thinking, whispered in the lack of space between them as Thrask kept kissing her like he wanted to remove the wine stain from her lips.

He’d said it first, as the wind slammed the doors and windows of her estate and witnessed the illicit way their bodies came together. The words ‘I would like to take you to Satinalia’ slipped from his lips and reached under her ribs, making hope bloom in her heart. Hope was never something she truly trusted, however, and what she said in return was not ‘yes’, but ‘won’t your dear Order comment on it?’ and she couldn’t stop the rest of the snide words descended from all her fears and anger, his mention of the traditional masks preserving their anonymity only stoking her ire. By the time dawn broke, he was gone and Katla was drinking, and it took days for her to slip a note with her answer to him through Isabela’s mediation. She watched, unseen, as he smiled upon receiving the scribbled word, and her heart beat faster and faster until she had to look away from him, the hope as painful as the futile longing for a normal life - a long life- with him.

*

When Katla goes to collect the suit on the morning that heralds the beginning of the festivities, she doesn’t look into the mirror until she is fully clothed and when she then glances at her reflection she doesn’t see an enemy there. 

The suit fits her so well she almost suspects some sort of magic at work, but the scent and trace of lyrium is absent from the seamstress and her shop, so Katla can only stare, stunned, as Isabela wolf whistles, pulling Katla’s hair into a low bun that settles heavily at the nape of her neck.

There is contrast at play between the stark whiteness of the shirt and the darkness of the jacket, balanced by accents of velvet in the same crimson as the waistcoat. 

‘I had some lace sent from the Valence cloister lying around,’ the seamstress says, as Katla touches the delicate material woven over the suit, the final touch of a masterpiece.

The half-mask is simple and the colour of burnished gold, making her eyes glow and matching the earrings that Isabela slips out of her barely-there pocket with a sly grin that makes Katla unwilling to ask questions about the provenance of the jewellery. None of it is what Katla would usually wear while dealing with the complications of her daily life, but she feels invincible in a way she hasn’t felt in years. She feels alive, her flushed cheeks highlighting her freckles. Her reflection smiles at her from the corner of her mouth, and when Isabela twirls her around, Katla laughs.

*  
Katla had thought it best to meet Thrask at the Lowtown festivities, so Isabela half-drags her through the crowds that are starting to gather and then takes over Varric’s quarters for the afternoon. The three of them drink together, and Isabela braids Katla’s hair with perfumed hands before pinning it in place. The perfume smells like heat and leather, like sweetness and smoke, and Isabela brushes the scent over Katla’s wrist, leaving the trace of it behind her ears, and Katla knows she should feel anxious but she only feels powerful. Varric and Isabela are staring at her like they are entranced, and there’s a giddiness in her that has little to do with the wine.

Before she dons the mask and makes her way down the stairs, she paints lipstick the colour of blood along the lines of her lips, and everyone turns to stare at her as she walks through the bustle, the drunken crowd parting around her.

Thrask is standing right outside the tavern, his posture as impeccable as always, and Katla’s breath stutters not only at the sight of him out of armour, but also because he’s not wearing a mask, because he’s right there, bare-faced and making her heart sing in a way it shouldn’t. He looks so handsome in his dark blue outfit, the scar around his neck mimicking the stars of the night sky, the material so soft looking that her hands ache to tear it. Katla wants to take her time and watch him, but the moment she moves his blue eyes find her straight away, and the way his lips part at the sight of her makes her magic hum inside her, make her blood rush to her head. Thrask reaches for her hand and presses his mouth to her wristbone, leading her into the revelry, and it all feels like she’s dreaming, like the Fade is showing her everything she wishes, as she walks hand in hand with him in the midst of a crowd of witnesses. She is wearing her mask, but the way Thrask holds onto her cannot be confused for anything else. She remains anonymous, but she is clearly not one of his rumoured conquests from the Rose, those rumoured conquests that shield them from the Order. If anyone were to look closely enough at her hair and her eyes, they would know, and Katla feels almost drunk on the feeling, on the defiance that surges within her. 

She has wanted to claim him for too long, and for one night, Kirkwall shall watch.

*

The dreariness of Lowtown seems hidden underneath the Satinalia decorations, the usual greyness masked by crimson garlands and wreaths of greenery. The wind is still screeching its way around crowds and corners, tangling itself into Katla’s hair and around where her hand is entwined with Thrask’s. It also helps with chasing the smell from the streets, preserving the dreamlike atmosphere, dangling the lamps and creating a dance of lights.

The stalls are both colourful and plentiful, standard fare for the holiday, but Katla can’t say she’s noticed them much before. She’s kept away from Kirkwall festivities throughout the years, preferring to drink either at a tavern or in private, especially as the loss and the despair grew.

This occasion feels different, as Thrask whispers in her ear, letting his lips linger along the sensitive skin of her neck as he breathes in her perfume. There’s something racing inside her, something she can’t name, won’t name, and it makes her magic glow in her eyes, so she looks down, at her hand in his.

Thrask leads her to several stalls, where they taste hot spiced wine and the lightest of pastries, his fingers lingering on her tongue as he feeds her delicacies, and it would look scandalous, even for Lowtown, if everyone else weren't lost in the same lack of inhibition. 

Katla takes advantage of the headiness in the air and kisses Thrask, in front of everyone, the smell of sugar and spice and brine and him around her, his beard soft against her jaw. She leaves the trace of her lipstick on his mouth and neither of them bother to wipe it off as her fingers tangle in the redness of his hair. Katla says nothing, because she knows her voice would shake with the weight of it, with the beauty of it, and she doesn’t want to break the moment with the acknowledgement of its enormity.

It feels like she’s part of the wind, light on her feet, whirling as the crowd parts around her, around them. Food has been like ash on her tongue for months, but tonight she feasts with Thrask on gilded cakes chased off with the decadence of the spiced wine. She kisses caramel off his lips that golden apples leave behind and basks in it, in kissing Thrask of the Templar Order in public, and she a mage and a blood mage at that, no matter how willing. 

She laughs and he laughs with her, the lines left by suffering on his face smoothing over at the same time as her heart soars, and when he leads her into a dance she doesn’t even stumble, not once.

They dance until the bells of the Chantry toll over the city, marking midnight. Tradition states that during Kirkwall’s days of Satinalia, masks come off each time the bells strike midnight, but Katla knows better than to dare, so she holds onto Thrask and kisses him, for luck, for hope, for all the things she’s not allowed to want, like those forbidden dreams of futures that cannot happen.

She kisses him to forget the pain, kisses him to remember how it feels to be alive, kisses him to tell him how she feels in a way she’ll never be able to say out loud, and when she stops kissing him, when she presses her forehead to his and looks right into his eyes in that open way she seldom allows herself, he unties the ribbon holding her mask up, ever so slowly, and takes it off. Katla catches her breath before it turns into a gasp, and when he kisses her there is no anonymity left, there’s nothing but a templar and a mage, out in the open, part of the world.

They have so much hunger for each other between the two of them that by the time they stop kissing Katla is almost sure it must be dawn already. When she looks around, no one is watching them, the drunken crowd staggering together and coming apart, the crunch of shattered fragments of golden ornaments underfoot. The wind staggers, and then returns with renewed violence, bringing rain with it, and shouts mingle with laughter and bawdy songs.

Katla can feel the illusion coming to an end so she holds on, her face buried in his shoulder, taking her comfort in the way he holds her back, in the soothing pattern of his breathing, in the way he feels so alive, in the way he makes her want to exist. They stand together for long, languid moments, and it feels right, it feels the way it should, but the growing realisation that she can’t hold on forever makes the familiar bitterness bloom on Katla’s tongue.

When she moves, Thrask follows, but he catches hold of her hand before she gets too far ahead, and it hurts to want it, but she needs him there, needs to pretend just a while longer, so they walk the way back to the Hanged Man together once more, hand in hand, rain catching in Katla’s lashes, her suit most likely ruined in a way that feels fitting, and the wind slipping its chill back into her heart.

Thrask is drawing patterns along her palm with his thumb when they turn the corner right next to the tavern, but then he is gone, so abruptly that it almost jars her into thinking they are being attacked. Katla has to look behind her to see him, quite a few paces to the side and looking not at her but at the group of templars in front of the entrance to the Hanged Man. Just like that, Katla is sober and fully immersed in reality, and thirsty for wine and oblivion, the same way she always is.

With one last look at Thrask, she squares her shoulders and her mask, wrapped around her hand, falls to the ground, left to the mercy of the storm or the gangs, whichever gets there first.

She walks into the tavern alone, her heart screaming with all the fervour of the wind coming in from the sea, but certain, at least, that he will follow according to their usual routine, his lips carrying her mark as the inside of her thighs carry his.

Throughout the city, the wind reigns, and sings, and destroys.


End file.
